PS 3537 

.1135 ns 

1913 
Copy 1 



YALE UNIVERSITY PRIZE POEM 



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YALE UNIVERSITY PRIZE POEM 



1913 



ATT TTHE BND 



BY 

EDWARD FAIRCHILD SMITH 



NEW HAVEN 

The Tottle, Morehouse & Taylor Company 

1913 



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PREFATORY NOTE 

This poem received the fifteenth award (no prize 
having been conferred in 1912) of the prize offered 
by Professor Albert Stanburrough Cook to Yale Uni- 
versity for the best unpublished verse, the Committee 
of award consisting of Professors Henry A. Beers, of 
Yale University, Cornelius B. Bradley, of the Uni- 
versity of California, and Herbert E. Greene, of Johns 
Hopkins University. 



AT THE END 

Scene: A Battle-field. 

Warrior. 

Nay, nay I would not come ; release my hand. 

The field's not lost ; red flies the blood, and hard 

In thickest fray clash swords on casque and targe. 

Begone! I know thee not! Why cling'st thou here 

About my knees, impeding every step? 

Out of my way ! I see a comrade pressed ! 

The fight grows blind ! Our captain's stricken dead ! 

Here, in such strife as this, well may one man 

Decide the issue of the balanced fight. — 

Ho, brother ! let me draw upon thy flask ; 

The sun grows over-hot, and all my mouth 

Is parched and cracks. (Drinks) Thanks, brother, thanks ! 

Good luck! 
(Listening) Yea, yea, I hear thee! Keep thy courage up; 
Only a moment and I'll be with thee! (Struggles on) 

5 



Death. 

Come, good friend, come! Thy time is nearly spent, 
And I would take thee to my sea-girt home. 

Warrior. 

Away, away ! What ? wilt thou not be gone ? 
Why hang'st thou on my arm as if of lead? 
What was that mist that seemed to cross mine eyes ? 
Did'st thou not see it ? Sooth, I must be sick ! 
True, I was wounded — still, 't was but a scratch. 
And in these times small scratches count for nought. 
Yet, would I that mine arm hung not so limp ! 
How heavy it has grown — aye, and my legs! 
But then, I must advance, for late I heard 
A trumpet give the call to charge. 

Death. 

Still bold? 
Come, follow me, thou valiant one and true, 
And I will lead thee to a summer sea, 
Where listless breezes rustle in the boughs 
Of poplars tall and whisp'ring cypresses. 

6 



Warrior. 
What, speak'st thou still of visions by the sea? 
My brow is very hot, and throbs anew ; 
Come, loose my casque that I may rest my head. (Sits 

dozvn) 
(Absently) Yea, mother, yea! I will do that anon : 
The meadows now are swimming- in the heat. 
'T is but a little time, and then — and then — 
The eventide will cool me, and I shall — 
(Calls) Ho, Jean! (Starting) What, heard I not a voice? 

I must 
Indeed be sick or dreaming ! I will go, 
And strike one more good stroke for lord and king. 
Then will I go and cure this bitter wound, 
Where I may hear the cooling rush of seas. 
Or hear the breezes lisp among the leaves — 

Death. 
And feel her tresses brush upon thy cheek. 

Warrior. 
(Sleepily) What say'st thou ? Ah, tell me yet more, I pray, 
Of that fair island girt about by seas. 

7 



Death. 
Nay, I will tell thee not, but come thyself 
To see, and when the anguish of this wound 
Is gone, thou wilt return, mayhap to fight 
Again. 

Warrior. 

Then take me ; I shall follow thee. 

That I may soothe the aching of this wound — 

And come again to fight beside my king. 

Death. 
(Smiling) Then come, brave warrior, (picking him up) 

that in other lands 
Thou may'st again face foes beside thy king. 
And fight in battles, and such triumphs win 
As thou could'st not believe. (In r every) Thus was it 

ever — 
Alike in age and youth throughout the world : 
They live, and toil, and strive to be stern men, 
Yet when at last they come, on me they lay 
Their weary heads, and close their heavy eyes, 
Like little children ready for their sleep. 

(Exeunt) 



